


The Last Goodbye

by thin_white_duke



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thin_white_duke/pseuds/thin_white_duke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan folds his arms behind his head, letting his shirt ride up to expose a strip of golden stomach. "You know this is the last night we're gonna be rooming together at an Olympics." He says the words meaningfully, and they hit Michael like a punch to the gut. After Athens, Beijing, London...they'd been young, carefree bachelors, finally freed from a week of crushing competition, giddy off the high of victory. It was no wonder they'd found their way into each other's beds.</p><p>Tonight was different. Michael had a new fiancée, a new baby, a new house... but Ryan was still there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched Michael's Under Armour commercial with the song "The Last Goodbye" and yes I teared up and yes I deal with emotions by writing porn now apparently so please enjoy this first attempt at fic!

When Michael steps through the door, Ryan is lying spread-eagled on his comforter, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He doesn't acknowledge Michael's presence. Michael coughs, uncomfortably, and makes a few awkward movements with his hands to get his friend's attention. 

Ryan responds without ever shifting his gaze from the ceiling. "Hey, Mike. Whatcha doin' back here?" His tone is carefully nonchalant. 

"Uh, I left my dress shoes. Nicole wants to go out to eat tonight. Steak or somethin', I dunno. Fancy stuff. Why are you still here? Figured you'd be partying it up at some club already." 

There's a painful silence. Things are never this awkward between them, because Ryan is always chatty as hell, ready with an easy grin and an offhand comment on the dorkiness of Michael's hair. (Michael swears no matter how dorky his hair is, at least he doesn't look like a seventy-year-old geezer like Ryan.) 

Ryan folds his arms behind his head, letting his shirt ride up to expose a strip of golden stomach. "You know this is the last night we're gonna be rooming together at an Olympics." He says the words meaningfully, and they hit Michael like a punch to the gut. After Athens, Beijing, London...they'd been young, carefree bachelors, finally freed from a week of crushing competition, giddy off the high of victory. It was no wonder they'd found their way into each other's beds. It was just something to take the edge off, nothing serious, just two sexually deprived swimmers celebrating the end of an Olympics with messy blowjobs and desperate rutting. Not that Ryan was ever truly sexually deprived--but when it came to Michael, Ryan was always desperate. It wasn't really a thing...until it was a thing. 

After London, Michael had been frustrated, consumed with self-loathing, hating his decision to retire, yet not sure there was another option. He knew he wasn't fit for any sort of company. Ryan found him breathing hard, staring into the mirror and cradling the bleeding hand he'd just smashed into the marble countertop. He hadn't said a word about the medals being good enough, because he knew they weren't. Not good enough for Michael. He'd leaned casually against the doorframe, fixed his cool blue eyes on Michael's reflection, and quirked his mouth into half a grin. "I know you're not happy with it."

"No shit I'm not happy. What gave it away?" Michael had practically snarled back.

"Just means you gotta come back for another one, bro." The smirk broadened into a full-on patented Lochte Grin. "Can't get rid of me that easily."

Michael had rolled his eyes, mixed irritation and fondness for his best friend seeping into his anger at himself. He'd taken the opportunity to lunge at Lochte, to slam him up against the doorframe, and this was so much better than punching any counter. Less painful, for one, and he also got Ryan's mouth against his, that mouth that he swore must’ve been made for kissing, hot and sweet and slick. Ryan kissed like a fucking pornstar, tongue slipping past Michael’s lips like it belonged there, licking obscenely into his mouth and pausing only to pant harshly into the crook of Michael’s neck. Michael still pinned him against the doorframe, his taller frame curling as close to Lochte’s body as physically possible. Ryan had bit down on his collarbone, sucking harshly and wetly before pulling away to press his lips against the spot sensuously. It’d pulled a sharp gasp unbidden from Michael’s throat, and he’d arched unwillingly into Ryan’s body. This had had the not-entirely-unexpected consequence of pressing their groins together, and he felt with satisfaction Ryan’s erection and the shudder that ran down his spine. He’d fisted a hand into Ryan’s (not-silver) hair and wrenched his head up so that he could bite at those lips, unfairly full and sensuous for a man. 

The anger he’d felt still simmered, and he knew he was taking out his aggression on Ryan. Lochte didn’t complain—his lips parted and curled at the corners, and his eyes fell shut. Michael migrated from his lips to that sharp jawline and down his throat, reveling in the fact that competition was over, and he could leave as many marks as he liked across that tan unbroken skin. Ryan moaned at a particularly vicious bite, aqua eyes flying open and meeting Michael’s. They’d paused, both panting and sweating, for a moment before Lochte managed to whisper hoarsely, “Bed.” Michael hadn’t wanted to let him go, so he bent his neck to keep kissing Ryan, to taste the inside of his mouth as he propelled them toward the bed. 

Thank god for British cheapness, he’d thought, as they moved blindly, too caught up to worry about tripping over furniture or crashing into things. The room had been small, and the furniture sparse, and they’d made it to the bed easily enough. He’d tossed Ryan down and just stared at him. Cheeks flushed and blue eyes bright, he really looked like an angel. A really sexy, really fucking impatient angel who’d begun stripping his clothes off, tossing a t-shirt easily onto the floor and sliding out of his sweatpants. He lay there on Michael’s bed in just his briefs, looking every bit like a young Greek god. Michael must’ve stood there staring for too long, because Ryan began contorting himself into ridiculous poses, making faces and obviously trying very hard to imitate the girls on the covers of the Playboy magazines he’d clearly seen too much of. Michael snorted and bent to yank off his own clothes before falling straight onto his now nearly-naked best friend. “Oof! That’s like, not cool man! Get the fuck offa me before I suffocate and you can’t fuck me without going to jail for necrophilia!” 

Michael wrinkled his nose and muttered “I'm surprised you even know that word,” before nosing into Ryan’s neck again. 

“Whatever man,” Ryan sighed, tilting his head back to expose his neck. 

Michael’s brain caught up to what Ryan had just said. “Wait, fuck you? You’re gonna let me fuck you?”

Ryan looked him straight in the eye, his gaze intent but his cheeks flushed as he challenged, “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

They’d never done that before. They’d fucked around, getting each other off with dirty mutterings in each other’s ears and mutual messy handjobs and blowjobs. They’d never done this. They’re both too dominant, alpha personalities and competitive in and out of the pool. 

Phelps had let out a shuddering breath, leaning over Ryan to drag his tongue slowly down Ryan’s chest and abdomen. The little sounds Ryan had made went straight to his dick, little whines and gasps and sweet moans as Michael had dragged his briefs down with his teeth. Michael had let his eyes drift back up to meet Ryan’s gaze before mouthing against his dick. Ryan had let his head drop back, sighing appreciatively at the skill of Michael’s tongue until—he jerked, and a palm had smashed into the side of Michael’s head.

Michael had reared back. “What the fuck dude?” But the wide-eyed look on Ryan’s face, equally shocked and vulnerable, had made the anger dissipate. Michael had let his tongue slide onto Ryan’s balls, and further back, and further back, until a hot press of tongue and lips against his hole had had Ryan jerking back in shock—and, apparently, inadvertently slapping Michael in the face. 

Ryan had relaxed back into the mattress. “Sorry Mike—caught me by surprise there buddy. Won’t happen again,” he croaked. 

Michael had settled for glaring at Ryan and clutching his face melodramatically for a few seconds before Ryan interrupted again: “Hey man, I’m letting you fuck my ass. Stop bein’ a fucking princess and get to it before I change my mind. And give a bro some warning before you stick your fucking tongue up his ass!” 

Michael had thought that was fair enough, and raised his eyebrows lecherously before asking deliberately, “So can I stick my tongue up your ass now?” 

He’d decided Ryan’s long moan was answer enough, and pressed his face into Ryan’s ass again. His fingers had slapped this ass before, playfully on the pool deck, and he did it again, pulling back to enjoy the red mark and Ryan’s cursing. He’d played with Ryan’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart and squeezing them, until Ryan had squirmed with embarrassment and frustration. He hadn’t been sure how much he was allowed to test Ryan’s patience, so he bent down and went to town. He hadn’t exactly eaten a guy out before, but a couple of hard licks had had Ryan moaning like a chick. He’d finally slipped his tongue in, and this was a new sensation—fucking into Ryan’s ass with his tongue, holding down his hips to keep his desperate writhing under control. Ryan’s inner muscles had been vise-like, so hot and so tight, and Michael had panted and needed to palm his dick just thinking of fucking him later. He’d finally just sucked hard on Ryan’s hole, and Ryan’s moans told him he was doing something right.

Michael had known where the condoms and lube were, and he’d scrambled over to grab them with more urgency than he’d just swam the relay. Spilling a probably excessive amount of lube over his hand and drizzling some directly over Ryan’s hole to feel him shudder, Michael had wasted no time in plunging a finger straight in to the second knuckle. 

“Jesus Mikey!” Ryan’s shout made Michael grin, and he fucked Ryan hurriedly with the one finger, waiting until Ryan’s ass had stopped clenching down. He added a second finger, and watching Ryan moan had the brilliant idea of bending down to lick next to his own fingers, against the rim of Ryan’s hole. 

Ryan had moaned and writhed. “You little slut, Lochte. You little slut, you want it so bad, you sound like some chick getting her pussy pounded in a porno and I haven’t even touched your dick yet,” Michael chuckled breathlessly. He’d known when he’d hit Ryan’s prostate by the increased pitch and desperation of the moans, and he’d rubbed his fingers in slow circles against it, letting Ryan buck his hips wildly. Michael had continued to finger Ryan until he was writhing against the sheets, quiet pants and pleas falling from those pouty lips. 

“Please. Michael. Stop playing, you know what I want.”

“Yeah, Ryan? What do you want?”

There had been a pause as Ryan had gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, turning his face into the pillow. “C’mon Ryan, ask for it, you stubborn motherfucker,” Michael had coaxed.

“Fine fucking fine please fucking fuck me before I like combust Michael you asshat please!” 

“Damn, Ry. Could’ve just said that earlier,” Michael had groaned as he tore open the condom packet. Ryan’s pleas had gone straight to his dick, and he was hard without having even touched himself. 

Sliding into Ryan had been the most exquisite and tortuous pleasure Michael had ever experienced. It wasn’t like having sex with a girl—there was a lot more cursing on Ryan’s part, and the slick, tight heat was mind blowing. Michael had tried to control his movements, and it took all the self-control he’d developed over years of training to wait for Ryan to adjust instead of sliding in and thrusting till kingdom come. After he’d bottomed out, he’d paused to take in the gravity of the moment: himself, buried up to his balls in the trembling, sweaty, absolutely gorgeous body of his best friend. (Seriously, looking back at their pictures from Athens, Ryan with the olive wreath over his curls looked positively divine. A Greek god. Apollo himself, golden and magnificent and oh-so-blue-eyed. Okay, maybe Michael had saved some of those photos, and not just to commemorate his first successful Olympics.)  
When Ryan had begun thrusting back slightly with his hips in an all-too-obvious “get moving motherfucker” gesture, Michael had taken the cue and pulled almost all the way out before slamming home. He hadn’t waited to hear Ryan’s gasp before repeating the action, fucking his best friend in smooth, hard strokes. He hadn’t noticed Ryan’s hand snaking its way under his body to rub at his dick until he’d felt Ryan’s muscles convulse, his back arching and hole contracting desperately around Michael’s dick. Then he’d noticed. Then he’d paused to watch Ryan come, before losing himself to desperate rutting until he’d came with a cry in Ryan’s ass. Well, into the condom. But into Ryan’s ass was definitely on the bucket list.

They’d lain there, together, blissfully fucked-out. All of Michael’s rage and frustration at not meeting his own standards due to what he knew was his own slacking had slipped away, replaced with deep satisfaction and a certain degree of shock at what had just gone down in a cheap room in the London Olympic Village.  
Ryan had curled up into him, and he’d let his hand fall into his hair. The vulnerability Ryan had shown him was disturbing, but the affection he felt was too true to be denied. That was the moment everything changed, and Michael had shuddered at the weight of the realization that Ryan Lochte was not just a post-Olympic, stress-relieving fuck buddy.

But that was then, and this was now. They’re in Rio now, where Michael had sworn he’d never find himself, and it was at least in part due the fact that he hadn’t been able to quit his best friend. But things couldn’t be more different. He’s got a baby. He’s got a fiancée. He’s got a gorgeous house in Arizona, and a new life ahead of him. Ryan’s just lying there, innocently but not at all innocently, a strip of skin showing at the bottom of his shirt, and Michael has never felt more conflicted in his life.


End file.
